Dead Deer

Dead deer wear parchment for skin,
dip dyed in cosmetic sin.
Ten dollars in the coffer for a ride
downtown on the front of a monster.
And the boys rhyme her name with princess doll
at least when her ears ring and jaw calls,
sore from tasting itself or someone else’s
Like licking liquid lies
from the side of her cheek, the corner of an eye.

Her eyes, her eyes, these guys are trying
to make her into what she wants them to see.
A shark in swan feathers.

She tastes like cinnamon whiskey
but a lie! She never drinks
in frills and pony tails
or when Hawking’s a sex symbol.
Until, she’ll gleefully intoxicate in tongues
or make phallic symbols of 42%
with the corner of a rouge brush.



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